


Music with the Voice

by dysfn



Category: The Strange Case of Starship Iris (Podcast)
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, At its core this is a love letter to Brian Jeeter and also humans, Canon-Typical Violence, English language learning, First Meetings, Linguistic Xenoanthropology, Linguistics, Other, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Singing, Space revolutionary job interview blind dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29956323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysfn/pseuds/dysfn
Summary: It’s a year and a half before the wreck of the Iris.In their frantic quest for passage out of Neuzo, a newly-defected Krejjh meets a human bartender who moonlights as an interpreter.Or: a Dwarnian deserter’s early impressions of English, singing, and Brian Jeeter.
Relationships: Brian Jeeter & Krejjh, Brian Jeeter/Krejjh
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	Music with the Voice

**Author's Note:**

> Content notes: canon-typical violence, canon-typical references to war, minor references to food and alcohol
> 
> Beta'd by Clara, without whom this work wouldn't exist. Thanks as always for your support and inspiration <3

“Do you know much about human history, Krejjh?” Ashjre asks.

“Uhmm.” Krejjh tries to remember. They know what they need to know, sure, about the war and the Republic and the major human population centers and all their primitive weaponry. But nothing before the war. What even was there of these creatures before the war?

Ashjre huffs out a laugh. “Doesn’t sound like it,” they correctly guess. “They’re only just coming into their space age, you know. Baby’s first interplanetary war.”

Krejjh can’t bring themself to laugh. Not after—they just can’t. There’s nothing funny or trivial about the war. They’re defecting for a reason.

It still strikes them as odd to see fearless human faces. There are so many in this quadrant of the station, bodies unarmored, faces unshielded. Haggling at trade cubicles, hands spread in wild gestures. Lounging on the floor, heads thrown back in laughter. And all around, Dwarnians, eating with the humans, trading with them. Dwarnian and human scripts side-by-side on all the signage, like it’s that simple to just make a world that both species can understand. As they walk through, Krejjh takes it all in, increasingly apprehensive but increasingly certain about the decision they’re making.

“Yes, humans are relatively new to space travel,” Krejjh says finally. “I know that much.”

“ _That_ much is obvious,” Ashjre says, dismissive. “I mean to say, this language you seek. The system of these sounds these creatures make. Do you know its history?”

Krejjh can barely remember their Vree Chel Nokean, and that was, oof. Years of study. “Why would I know the history of the human language?” Krejjh asks.

“It’s not ‘the human language,’” Ashjre says. “Remember, early space age. They don’t even have a species-wide cultural identity yet. You should at least know what the language is called.”

Ashjre’s mouth curls around the word ‘language,’ like it’s a stretch to name it as such, and Krejjh cringes. That ever-present disdain, unapologetic as fact, when Krejjh has seen the lie in it and can’t go back. What’s the damn language called? Krejjh knows they know it, it’s in there somewhere.

“Urenglijjh?” Krejjh guesses.

“Earth-English,” Ashjre corrects, like that’s a joke, too. “Named for the English people, a warlike human tribe from a northern island of their homeworld. They set out in water-ships to conquer all other human tribes. Legend says that at the empire’s height, the light of the star Sol, their sun, could never refuse to touch the soil of the English Empire. Isn’t that barbaric?”

“Yeah, Ashjre, it’s colonization,” Krejjh shoots back. “Just about as barbaric as what humans _and_ Dwarnians have done to countless planets. Not to mention this entire war.”

Ashjre snorts. “The war is soon to be over, Krejjh.”

“As everyone in Neuzo knows!” Krejjh agrees. “I’m sure every station was singing.”

Singing. By now, Krejjh has heard enough of the mournful human mouth-music to know it’s a celebration of victory and grief in equal breath. Battle poetry, but spoken in notes, like an instrument. Rhythmic, tonal shouts heard distantly across the battlefield. A few notes slipping between a wounded soldier’s lips. The tinny shape of a human voice laid over musical accompaniment on a radio transmission. And then last night’s heart-wrenching roar, a crowd of voices lifted in helpless, heartbroken gratitude for an end to suffering. The sound that made clear to Krejjh once and for all that they couldn’t stand by what their people had done.

Ashjre makes a face. “Loud _and_ purposeless. How very human.”

Krejjh reminds themself, yet again, that Ashjre is the only lead they have, and they need help soon if they’re going to get off Neuzo before trouble finds them. They swallow their reply.

If Krejjh’s reservations show on their face, Ashjre doesn’t seem to notice. They’re pushing open a door and pulling Krejjh into a wide, low-ceilinged room with corrugated walls and dim green-tinged lights. The air is thick with smoke and aerosolized motor oil.

Well, even more so than the rest of Ryedell Station.

The ceiling is really _very_ low, isn’t it?

“This is a human bar,” Krejjh realizes.

“Of course,” Ashjre says. “He’s human.”

“He’s human,” Krejjh repeats, surprised.

“He’s a Dwarnian-to-Earth-English interpreter, what did you expect?”

Krejjh…doesn’t know. They knew they’d have to work with humans eventually. That was the whole idea with hiring an interpreter, after all. But the idea of putting a human in charge of their negotiations, their work prospects, their _words_ —

“Come on,” Ashjre grumbles, and pulls Krejjh in by their elbow. Krejjh is getting a little sick of that, but they can play nice. Of course they can.

The bar is empty, as one might expect at 1400 hours. The only patrons are a pair of humans who are sitting at one end of the bar, speaking with a pair of human bartenders. All four of them are clustered together, body language unworried. Unguarded. The sound of their language reaches Krejjh: bright, nasal, syllabic. High falling tones on gliding vowels, broken up with imprecise consonants. The alien sound of humans having a pleasant conversation.

Ashjre picks a seat at the far end of the bar. Krejjh sits next to them and eyes the thirteen-odd stools between them and the nearest human patron. They’ve always seen humans at a distance. They wonder if that’s about to change. They wonder if they want that change, if they can imagine what it would feel like to be an alien among humans instead of a Dwarnian among aliens.

Krejjh realizes they’ve been zoning out when Ashjre starts speaking. It’s unintelligible, and Krejjh is lost for a moment, before they realize Ashjre isn’t speaking to them. One of the human bartenders has drifted over and Ashjre is speaking to them in uncomfortable-sounding Earth-English. When Ashjre stops, the bartender turns to Krejjh.

Krejjh stares blankly back.

Ashjre laughs. “Do you want anything?”

“Water?”

The human nods and steps away.

“Wise to save your money,” Ashjre mutters. “These dives are notorious for weak drinks, and that’s by _human_ standards.”

Krejjh shrugs. “Just want my head clear if I’m talking employment. Could have warned me, though.”

Ashjre snorts and tosses their head dismissively. “You really want to do this?” They ask.

“Not like I have a lot of options,” Krejjh points out. “I’ve got to get off Neuzo through channels the Federation can’t use to find me.”

“Yes, but humans? Is that really necessary? You know there are plenty of other Dwarnian defectors in Neuzo, even on Ryedell.”

Krejjh shouldn’t ask, they really shouldn’t. Ashjre could definitely take offense. But Krejjh is curious. They look Ashjre in the eye.

“How do you know this human if you think humans are so useless?” Krejjh asks.

Ashjre frowns. “That’s not your concern,” they chide. “I promise you he’s the best interpreter on this station. Probably all of Neuzo.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Krejjh says, studying Ashjre’s face.

Ashjre looks back and says nothing.

The air between them sours, acrid even for space station air, communicative and wordless. Ashjre’s gaze yellows, the corners of their mouth stiffen. Their eyes never shift from Krejjh’s, not for a moment.

However Ashjre knows this interpreter, their connection links Ashjre to a crime worse than defecting. Krejjh would bet on it.

Krejjh breaks the stare: they’ve let Ashjre win, for now. They won’t pry; they’re not in a position to make enemies. Krejjh picks up the water glass that has just been set on the bar for them and takes a sip. “Where is this human, anyway? When are we supposed to meet him?”

“You wouldn’t be here to meet an interpreter, by any chance?” Someone who isn’t Ashjre asks, friendly and respectful. A diplomatic opening in lightly accented but fluent Dwarnian. Krejjh looks around; they hadn’t heard anyone else enter the bar. No one is behind them. The bar is still empty, save for the two faraway human patrons, and the—

The bartender who’d brought their drinks over is still standing there, hands on the bar, eyes on Krejjh with intention.

Krejjh takes a better look at the human, now that they know to look at him. He’s got a human’s compact build, skin closer to pink than brown, dark brown hair arcing off his head in loose curling shapes. His eyes are narrow like Krejjh’s, but dark, much darker than Dwarnian eyes get. The way he’s looking at them, Krejjh thinks it could be very easy and very inadvisable to underestimate this man.

“Krejjh, meet Translator Jeeter,” Ashjre says. It’s too informal as an introduction. Maybe Ashjre has a close relationship with this human, maybe they don’t respect him, maybe they don’t respect Krejjh. Maybe Ashjre just doesn’t put much value on circumstance, but by the way they’ve been chattering about human barbarism for the past half-hour, Krejjh doesn’t find that likely.

“Bartender Jeeter,” the human corrects, looking slightly uncomfortable — maybe the nuances of Ashjre’s tone aren’t lost on him. He rolls his shoulders and turns to Krejjh with a smile. “I’m happy to make your acquaintance, Krejjh.”

His accent really is good, except for the Js. More than that, his greeting is appropriate: not disrespectful, not too stuffy, a balance even Dwarnians often misjudge. It’s surreal, hearing that voice come out of a human. Makes him seem more like a person.

Krejjh catches that thought and stares at it; it’s as ugly as it is Dwarnian. All humans are people. Even the ones who can’t communicate their personhood to Krejjh.

“Happy to make your acquaintance, Bartender Jeeter,” Krejjh replies with a nod.

“You’re a pilot,” he notes. “Ashjre said you need an interpreter for a job search?”

“Pretty much,” Krejjh says. “I need passage off Neuzo in the next week, ideally sooner. I can fly, but I don’t have a ship.”

“No Dwarnian ships hiring pilots?” He assumes.

“That’s not the issue,” Krejjh admits, searching his expression. He should know what that means, and he’ll see Krejjh’s unasked question in their face: is that going to be a problem?

Understanding shifts his expression. “I see,” he says. “How’s your English?”

“Nonexistent. That’s why I’m here.”

His expression tightens, just slightly. “I worry that, with human crews, you’ll—”

“I can learn the language,” Krejjh insists, deliberately _not_ thinking of their equally nonexistent grasp of Vree Chel Nokean. “I’ll be able to pick it up, especially if I can find learning resources in Neuzo before I leave. It’s just, I’m on a tight time frame, I hadn’t exactly _planned_ on needing to abscond on a human ship, I didn’t _study—”_

“Okay,” he says, soothing. No tension in his shoulders, hands calm against the bar. He meets Krejjh’s gaze, confidence absolutely solid, as he says: “I can help you.”

Krejjh hadn’t realized they needed the reassurance until it came, like space-travel gravity unexpectedly guiding them to fall in the right direction. “Thank you,” Krejjh breathes, and means it far more than they’d expected to.

“Ashjre,” Bartender Jeeter says. “Thank you for the introduction and for coming all this way.”

Krejjh had forgotten they were there. Ashjre smiles and takes a sip of their drink, which, Krejjh notes, is also water. “Of course,” they say, blatantly ignoring Bartender Jeeter’s request that they leave.

Bartender Jeeter studies Ashjre for a beat, then turns to Krejjh, unfazed. “Do you still need leads on who’s hiring?”

“Yes,” Krejjh says hesitantly, with a glance toward Ashjre; they can’t quite parse what the conversation has become.

“I know a few people who may be able to help. If you give me a few hours, I can reach out to some folks, and we can talk more later this evening. Is that okay with you?”

Krejjh glances between the two of them quickly. Bartender Jeeter doesn’t want to discuss their business in front of Ashjre, and Ashjre is intent enough on knowing or interfering with their business that they don’t mind flaunting basic social etiquette to do so. But Krejjh’s business with Bartender Jeeter is just a series of employment negotiations. What does Ashjre want?

Krejjh is frustrated, and trying hard not to show it. They’re in a desperate position. They don’t have time to agonize over who to trust. If it’s a choice between Ashjre and the human, well, at least the human is being polite.

“Yeah, that’d be awesome,” Krejjh replies. “I’ll come back here?”

He steps back to grab a disposable coaster from behind the bar and scribbles something on the back. “Come to this address around 1900 hours,” he says.

“Okay,” Krejjh says, and takes the coaster.

The human nods. “Happy to meet you,” he says, an amicable and temporary farewell. “I’m glad I can help.”

Krejjh nods, more relieved than they’d expected. “Happy to meet you. I’m glad you can help, too.”

When Krejjh stands to leave, Ashjre follows, without another look or word toward the human. Once the two of them are outside, Ashjre grabs Krejjh’s elbow again. This time, Krejjh gives in to instinct and yanks it away.

“I did as you asked,” Ashjre says, indicating an unfinished transaction. Ashjre has done Krejjh a favor and expects one in return.

Krejjh sighs. “What do you need?”

“Say this human business doesn’t work out for you,” Ashjre suggests — is that a threat? “Come and work for me. My people need a pilot.”

“Who are your people?”

“Think this through,” Ashjre says. “We’ll pay you well, we’ll keep you offworld, we don’t work with the Federation, and we speak your language already. You could skip this whole process.”

“Who are your people, Ashjre?” Krejjh repeats.

Ashjre shrugs. “You can meet them,” they say, which still isn’t an answer. “It’s your choice.”

Krejjh chooses to walk away without another word.

* * *

The address is a second-floor residential cubby in the southwestern arm of the station. When Krejjh arrives, the sun-lights are dimmed, reflecting along the aluminum-alloy walls in slick yellow stripes. They climb a ladder from the main corridor into a narrow passageway lined with a half-dozen shut doors. Inside, Krejjh can’t stand to their full height.

While they stare at the address on the coaster, trying to make sense of the door numbering system, Krejjh hears singing. It’s softer singing than they’ve ever heard. Singing like breathing, unintentional but necessary. When they listen closer, Krejjh hears a radio playing under the singing, a staticky voice echoing the real voice’s movement. Whoever’s singing, they’re singing along. Singing in collaboration and solidarity with someone who isn’t anywhere nearby, who they probably haven’t even met. Sharing in grief and victory with a stranger.

The sound of it turns Krejjh’s insides slippery with longing, faux-sunlight against space station walls aching for the touch of a star’s heat.

After a reverent moment, Krejjh returns to studying the address, only to realize the singing is coming from Bartender Jeeter’s cubby.

Krejjh knocks, and it feels just a little bit like taking a hammer to a museum display case.

The singing stops and the door opens. “Hello, Krejjh,” Bartender Jeeter says.

“Hello, Bartender Jeeter.”

He motions them in. It’s a cubical room about as tall, long, and wide as Krejjh’s height, and now that they’re both standing, Krejjh can see that Bartender Jeeter is only a hand’s-length shorter than they are. His cot is on a shelf halfway up one wall and it spans almost the entire length of the room. The opposite wall is taken up with a kitchen range and food storage. There’s a small desk and chair against the far wall and storage bins stacked under the bed and along the walls. This kind of room must be linked to communal hygiene and washing facilities, because that’s all. That’s everything in this room where Bartender Jeeter clearly lives.

“Dude, you barely fit in here,” Krejjh says.

Bartender Jeeter shrugs. “Space is hard to come by, in—well, in space. It’s home for me.”

“I heard you singing. Sounded nice.”

Bartender Jeeter’s face turns pinker. Krejjh doesn’t know — can’t remember? — whether change in skin pigmentation means anything for humans, so they decide not to worry about it.

“Thanks,” he says eventually, with a glance toward the radio. “I like this song.”

“I do, too,” Krejjh decides immediately, though the attention they’ve paid to the radio is negligible.

He pulls two flat cushions off the bed, sets them on the floor, and sits on one. Krejjh takes the cue to sit across from him on the other, and by the time they get settled, he’s studying them, lips pressed tightly together.

“How do you know Ashjre?” he asks.

“A former copilot of mine, Gricha, put me in touch with them; they went to school together. I only met Ashjre this afternoon.” Krejjh chooses pronouns to identify Ashjre as a neutral acquaintance. They don’t want to be insulting, but they don’t want to give Bartender Jeeter the impression that they and Ashjre have history, either. Krejjh doesn’t want to be implicated in whatever Ashjre’s history might be.

“You don’t sound like you trust them,” he says, unaccusatory but blunt.

“I don’t,” Krejjh admits. “How do _you_ know them?”

“A buddy of mine called me to help negotiate a hostage situation with a local mercenary squad,” Bartender Jeeter says carefully. “Ashjre was one of the mercenaries.”

Krejjh thinks of Ashjre’s job offer and grimaces, now certain they made the right choice in walking away.

Bartender Jeeter continues: “It was kind of an intense situation, so we kept in touch, and I’ve done some interpreting for them a couple times since then. I don’t endorse what they do, but hey, if I can help keep things civil, sometimes that keeps people safe.”

“You’re brave for a human,” Krejjh blurts.

“You’re friendly for a Dwarnian,” Bartender Jeeter fires back, but there’s no bite to it. “It’s just what any decent person would do with my skillset.”

That’s not true at all, which is a fact so obvious it can be said with a look, so Krejjh looks at him.

He makes a sweeping motion with his eyes, upward and to the side. “Anyway,” he says pointedly. “I have some questions, if that’s all right.”

“Yeah,” Krejjh says, then thinks, fuck it. “I’m deserting the military and defecting from the Federation, just so we’re clear on the stakes. I’m trusting you not to turn me in, but I’m trusting you with a lot of things, so I might as well be honest.”

Bartender Jeeter nods, solemn. “Thank you for telling me,” he says quietly. “You won’t be the first Dwarnian I’ve helped leave the military.”

“Thank you,” Krejjh replies, and doesn’t let themself worry. Frankly, it’d be a waste of time and energy at this point, anyway, and if trusting this human turns out to be a miscalculation, then they can deal with the consequences later.

His questions are simple. When does Krejjh need to be off the station? (Within the week, if at all possible.) How desperate are they to get out quick? (They’re not in dire straits yet, but they’ve seen how the Federation treats deserters, so…they’ll take a sub-optimal job if they need to.) What kind of work are they willing to do? (Krejjh cannot emphasize enough what an unusually gifted stunt pilot they are and how truly lucky any ship’s crew would be to fly with them, but at Bartender Jeeter’s pressing, they grudgingly admit they’d do grunt work on a ship. Not security, nothing violent. Not this soon.)

Finally, Bartender Jeeter nods decisively. “I got some names from my contacts today,” he says. “Ships that are in the area. I can set up meetings. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Oh, I have written in my calendar, ‘be extremely proactive and cooperative with my interpreter about plans for getting to safety before the Federation skins me alive,’” Krejjh says.

He dips his head and chuckles. “How would you feel about hanging out in the bar during my shift tomorrow? I’ll arrange for people to meet us there. That would streamline this whole deal.”

“It’s a human bar, won’t I stand out?”

“Human-run, but this is Neuzo. You won’t draw attention.”

“And just…” Krejjh doesn’t want to complain, but _honestly._ “Just sit there all day?”

He makes that motion with his eyes again. “I’ll bring you an English textbook,” he says brightly, like that’s any kind of incentive.

“Okay,” they sigh, hoping they don’t sound as bored by the prospect as they feel. “Sitting and reading. I can do sitting and reading.”

They discuss his payment, which is very reasonable, but as Krejjh gets up to leave, they pause to reflect on the arrangement. “You didn’t sign on to do the rest of this,” they acknowledge. “Networking and all this extra work to actually _find_ me a job.”

“Finding what you need in Neuzo is all about knowing who to ask,” he says. “And you didn’t know who to ask other than Ashjre, which, I’m not going to lie, is mildly concerning. You seem like good people. I’m not going to let you struggle here until the Federation finds you just because you didn’t know who to ask. I can make a few calls. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me,” Krejjh says, because it’s objectively true that they’d still be at square one without his extra help.

“Then I’m glad we met,” He says with a smile. “We’ll make headway tomorrow, okay? Should be some interesting folks. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” Krejjh half-lies, warm and confused at the open kindness of this complete alien stranger. “Goodnight, Bartender Jeeter.”

“Goodnight, Krejjh,” he replies.

On the walk back to the hostel in the late-night artificial half-light, Krejjh thinks Ryedell Station couldn’t look any more like a mystery waiting to be uncovered.

* * *

Bartender Jeeter’s shift starts at 14:30 the next day. When Krejjh arrives, it’s 14:36, and the bar is once again deserted. There’s one human sitting at the bar, who’s talking to Bartender Jeeter.

“Krejjh, hey,” Bartender Jeeter calls out as they approach. “This is Captain Shane Jennings of the starship Diamond.”

Krejjh sits next to Captain Jennings as Bartender Jeeter talks to him in quick Earth-English.

“I introduced you and told him you’re a pilot looking for employment,” Bartender Jeeter explains. “I’ll interpret now.”

“Thank you for meeting me,” Krejjh says to Captain Jennings.

“Sure,” he says through Bartender Jeeter. “So, I won’t beat around the bush. Most of my men fought in the war. Killed plenty of your people. That a problem for you?”

“Nah, I understand,” Krejjh says. “I mean, I fought in the war, too. Most Dwarnians didn’t support it. I don’t support it.”

“You fought in the war?” Captain Jennings asks, eyes narrow.

“Well, yeah,” Krejjh says. “Not anymore, though. That’s part of why I’m looking for work.”

“You’ve killed humans,” he says.

“You said people on your crew have killed Dwarnians,” Krejjh confirms, already lost.

“That’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“Listen,” Captain Jennings says, standing up from his seat. Bartender Jeeter’s voice drops somewhere between uncomfortable and angry, but he proceeds with what Krejjh takes as a faithful translation: “We need a pilot, but we don’t need one who’s endangered our species.”

Captain Jennings turns to Bartender Jeeter, says a few words that don’t get translated, and heads out of the bar.

“Well,” Bartender Jeeter says after a moment. “Day’s gotta go up from here, huh?”

“Did he know I was Dwarnian before we met?”

“Of course, I’ve mentioned that to everyone. It’s a nonstarter if they have a problem with who you are.”

“Good,” Krejjh mutters. “Thank you.”

“Sure. We’ve got someone else coming within the hour, just hang tight. Oh!”

He disappears under the bar for a moment, and when he pops back up, he has an actual, physical book. Flexible pages and everything. The cover reads “Introduction to Earth English” in big, childish Dwarnian letters.

“In case you need something to do,” Bartender Jeeter explains, pushing the book toward Krejjh. “You can keep that, by the way. I’ve got others.”

“Thanks,” Krejjh says, and tries to mean it.

* * *

Time passes.

Krejjh thumbs through the first few pages of the textbook, but it’s _so boring_. It’s clearly meant for kids, and it’s still _so boring_. Krejjh hasn’t needed to study for anything in ages, and hasn’t actually studied in even longer.

Krejjh shuts the book with a groan.

“Any questions I can answer?” Bartender Jeeter asks, looking almost painfully gleeful at the idea.

“Yeah, dude, how is your Dwarnian so good?”

“Sorry?”

“Your Dwarnian. You’re, like, perfectly fluent,” Krejjh says. It’s impressive, especially for a human. No need for either of them to pretend it’s not.

His face colors a bit. Krejjh still doesn’t know what that means. “Thanks,” he says.

“But…how? Most of your species have never even met a Dwarnian.”

“Oh, I, uh. I’ve studied a lot,” he says, in a tone that tells Krejjh he’s downplaying it.

Krejjh stares him down. Maybe that’ll be enough to get him to elaborate.

“I was a grad student in xenolinguistics before the war,” he says finally. “When the war started, I came here, and I’ve spoken to a lot of Dwarnians since then. Study and practice, just like learning any language.”

“I feel like you’re trying to bully me into opening this book again,” Krejjh complains.

He laughs and leans toward Krejjh, elbows on the bar. “Maybe trying to _encourage_ you,” he offers.

“Just tell me the answers! Tell me how to speak Earth-English!”

He smiles coyly and starts talking. Krejjh distractedly watches his mouth move for several seconds before realizing it’s not Dwarnian he’s speaking.

“Fine, fine, point taken,” Krejjh _doesn’t_ whine, just says quite reasonably and maturely. They open the book to the first lesson and read a bit about basic grammatical structures. Unfortunately, Bartender Jeeter’s attractiveness doesn’t make the book any less boring.

Krejjh catches _that_ thought, gives it a long, hard look, and decides to put it away to process later. Unfortunately, Krejjh’s surroundings push back against the delay: the radio changes to a new song, and he’s stepped out from behind the bar to straighten up the room, and as he works, he sings along to the radio. It’s mindless and quiet and devastating in what it does to Krejjh’s ability to take in oxygen.

Krejjh returns to the book.

Well, they give it an effort. It doesn’t exactly kill time. After a small eternity, five people come in and sit at the bar together, two Dwarnians and three humans. Bartender Jeeter and his coworker serve them all together, seamlessly transitioning between Dwarnian and Earth-English, sometimes mid-sentence. Krejjh can’t make sense of any of it, but that ease of communication is inspiring enough to drive them back to their attempts to study. When the commotion has died down a bit, Bartender Jeeter’s tasks bring him back toward Krejjh’s end of the bar.

 _“Hello, my name is Krejjh,”_ Krejjh attempts in Earth-English as he approaches.

 _“Hello, Krejjh, nice to meet you. I’m Brian,”_ he replies with a surprised laugh.

“Annnnd that’s all I’ve got! I didn’t totally get what you said,” Krejjh says in Dwarnian.

“Hey, that’s not bad! How’s it coming?”

“You know, Bartender Jeeter, it could be worse. There’s a lot of fun, fun words in this book. _People. People. People._ Am I saying that right?”

“More or less!” he says with a wide smile. Krejjh would bet he’s being far more congratulatory than the accomplishment warrants.

 _“People. People._ What are more good words?”

He gives Krejjh a completely blank look. “For some reason, the only thing that comes to mind is _banana_ ,” he says.

 _“Banana! Banana._ That is good, what does that mean?”

“It’s like a…” he starts to wave his hand descriptively, then stops abruptly with a chuckle. “It’s a long, yellow, sort of starchy fruit that I do not enjoy eating.”

“Starchy fruit?” Krejjh repeats, disgusted.

“Yeah, man, tell me about it.”

“I did have one question. This has _he/she_ as third-person singular pronouns. Is that for that…gender binary thing you guys have going on?”

He laughs. “Unfortunately.”

“The pronouns don’t even tell you anything other than gender! How am I supposed to know how people know each other?”

“I’m with you there, dude. There are more third-person singular personal pronouns, by the way. _They_ is a common gender-neutral one, but there’s a lot, I can give you some reference materials.”

Krejjh lets out a long, frustrated groan. “This is already so complicated. I’m just trying to refer to someone.”

“You know, I think I said that exact thing when I was first learning Dwarnian.”

“Fair! That’s a fair point, Bartender Jeeter.”

Bartender Jeeter’s head whips around at a sudden commotion down the bar. “Oops, gotta run,” he says with a grimace. “Back soon! Our guy should be here any minute.”

The guy is Captain Linnea Barrett of the starship Eddystone. She comes in almost a half-hour later with a sturdily-built human who she introduces as First Mate Misra. They talk in amiable terms about Krejjh’s prospects as an addition to their little starship family. Then they mention how much easier Krejjh’s presence will make their regular dealings with the Federation. Both Krejjh and Bartender Jeeter have to scramble to find an excuse to decline Captain Barrett’s offer. When they part, it’s on friendly terms, but Krejjh’s heart is pounding.

“Wow, I’m so sorry,” Bartender Jeeter whispers frantically as they leave the bar. “I can’t believe I didn’t catch that.”

“No, no,” Krejjh says emphatically. “Not your fault. They seemed nice enough.”

“They did. Too bad.” He lays a firm hand on their shoulder and meets their eyes, so sincere that Krejjh can’t help being reassured. “I’ll call up my next person and tell him to come by when he’s ready. Just gives you more time to go through that textbook, right?”

“Sadistic. You’re punishing me, what for?” Krejjh accuses as he walks away, but he just flashes them a teasing grin over his shoulder, and then Krejjh has to deal with how they feel about that for long enough that by the time they can think of anything more to say, he’s too far away to respond.

* * *

Krejjh finds some comfort in the easy atmosphere of the bar, the melodic human music playing on the radio, the soft chatter of Earth-English from the human bartenders and patrons. It’s creeping toward 1600 hours, and the smattering of customers has picked up to a steadier trickle. Krejjh is practicing phonetic exercises when the noise level from the back of the room begins to pick up.

All at once, it’s a crowd of humans singing.

Krejjh looks back to see several tables pushed together, all lined with humans of different ages and sizes, leaning over each other and swaying in time with their music. One of them is standing, singing on their own until the others join in at repeated sections. When they’re all singing together, it’s thunderous, overwhelming, the way their voices weave together across octaves and harmonies. Mournful and powerful as Krejjh knows human music to be.

When Krejjh tears their eyes away from the singing group, they notice that Bartender Jeeter is watching the singers, too, staring distractedly as he cleans the countertop.

Krejjh picks up their book and moves a few seats down the bar, right in front of where he’s working. As they sit down, he looks up with a surprised jolt.

“Oh, hey, Krejjh,” he says.

“What are they singing?” they ask.

He pauses to think. “Do Dwarnians have work songs?”

Krejjh frowns. “Work songs,” they say slowly. It feels like an oxymoron.

“Songs with a particular rhythm, maybe a repetitive section, that you use to keep time while doing some specific kind of manual labor?”

“Like battle poetry?”

“No, it’s musical and it’s a group effort. Hmm.” He frowns and taps his hands on the bar. “In English, the kind of song they’re singing is called a _shanty_. It dates back to water-ship sailing, when a crew would have to work together in unison to pull ropes to move these huge pieces of fabric that would propel the ships with wind. They had to _sing_ to keep in rhythm, and that helped them work better together,” He explains, eyes sparkling.

Krejjh has never heard of anything so wonderfully strange. “They had to sing to work?” they cry, leaning in over the bar. “That’s fantastic!”

“Isn’t it? You’d have these little crews on wooden ships for months at a time, salt water all the way to the horizon in every direction that whole time. And they _sang_. They’d spin up all these improvised songs, like what they’re singing now. Stories about how much they missed the people back home, or the storms at sea, or making fun of their captain—”

He breaks off. Krejjh doesn’t know why he’s stopped, but realizes abruptly that they’ve been staring at him, just smiling, spellbound. Watching his face light up as he talks about a tiny band of humans using their alien magic to weave the grief and victory of lonely water-travel into song, turning their bodies into instruments and using their instruments to guide their ships home.

Krejjh has been staring. They’re not sure what their face is doing. It’s probably awkward. But he’s still staring back, still smiling, warm and gorgeous, so how could Krejjh look away?

He clears his throat, and suddenly, Krejjh is sitting in a bar full of people again, talking to a human about a song.

He smiles softly as he continues, now quieter: “this one they’re singing is called, um. ‘Leave them’—but the pronoun is the female-gendered one, which gets used for things like ships and vessels sometimes—”

“What?!” Krejjh nearly shouts in amusement.

“Yeah, man, it’s ridiculous. ‘Leave them, _Johnny_ ,’ which is an informal name, a common one at the time. It’s a shanty for an end to a voyage.”

Krejjh hums thoughtfully. “Wonder if they’re singing about the war ending.”

“Could be,” he agrees. “Everyone’s singing about the war lately.”

Part of Krejjh wishes they understood why. In another sense, though, they’ve never understood anything more intuitively.

* * *

It’s nearing 1800 hours when Captain Hanae Minami of the starship Antelope squeezes next to Krejjh at the bar. She’s a formidable presence, disarming smiles with steel behind her eyes.

“So, tell me how you got started as a pilot,” she says after their introductions.

Krejjh, taken off-guard, hesitates.

“I’m interested in hearing how people end up on my crew,” she explains, and her smile is wide-eyed; she does seem genuinely interested.

“I’ve been flying since I was an adolescent,” Krejjh begins slowly. “I thought about going into diplomacy for a while, but my heart wasn’t really in it. In a technical class during my general schooling, I flew a small in-atmosphere craft for the first time. Turned out I was really good at it. Long story short, I still am.”

“Wow, so you’ve been flying most of your life, then?” Captain Minami says.

“Just about,” Krejjh says. “I flew commercial ships when I was younger, then picked up a job as a stunt pilot. Then, of course, there was need for pilots in the war, which brought me to Neuzo, and here I am.”

“You fought in the war?” Captain Minami asks, alarmed, smile fading.

Bartender Jeeter meets Krejjh’s eyes as he translates, and by his expression, they’re both thinking the same thing: not this again.

Captain Minami excuses herself, and this time, neither Krejjh nor Bartender Jeeter pays her much mind as she leaves.

“So, you’ve been a pilot for a long time,” Bartender Jeeter says, leaning over the bar toward Krejjh.

“Yep!” Krejjh says, through a bite of their sandwich.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

 _Like_ flying? Krejjh can’t fathom putting it like that. “It’s what I do,” Krejjh says, once they’ve finished chewing. “There’s nothing like flying for me. Nothing else I’ve done feels so completely natural. It’s…it can be meditative on long distances, which is immersive in the deep, keeping watch in that darkness. But also, pulling off difficult flying maneuvers, there’s nothing more energizing. It’s…”

Krejjh trails off when they notice Bartender Jeeter’s dark eyes on them, his smile hazy.

Krejjh clears their throat, ignoring the pronounced _thud_ in their chest. “Do you like flying?” they ask.

He bites his lip and looks away, considering. “I’ve only been on commercial passenger mass-transports,” he says wistfully. “It’s…fine, you know. It’s boring and it’s a lot of time to kill. I don’t know how different that is from the kinds of ships you fly.”

“Have you ever been in a cockpit?”

He shakes his head.

“Then it’s completely different,” Krejjh says, overwhelmed at the thought of what Bartender Jeeter has never experienced. “Those transports don’t have much in the way of windows or screens, all you see is the inside of the ship. In the cockpit, the ship doesn’t exist anymore. It’s you and several billion distant glittering lights and the infinite vastness of space. It’s holding the tenuous force of your own life in your hands and realizing that it’s unbreakably strong and also part of this huge universe like everything else. It’s everything. It’s everything to me, at least.”

It’s only been a few days since last they piloted a starship, and Krejjh already misses it. It hits them how long it’s been since they’ve felt themselves untethered in the deep, since they’ve pulled a ship into a turn that made passengers shout curses over the comms. The harsh, artificial space-station gravity suddenly feels too constraining. There are too many layers of steel glass and reinforced plastic and aluminum-alloy between Krejjh and the sky.

Krejjh breaks out of their reverie to find Bartender Jeeter staring at them, but not impatiently, just…staring. Like looking as an act in and of itself is enough to keep him occupied. When Krejjh meets his eyes, his face turns the slightest bit pinker (they still don’t know what that means), but he doesn’t look away.

“I’d love to know what that’s like,” he says softly, then drops his gaze. “I’ve always wanted to travel. You know, see different skies.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Oh, I was going to travel for my field work toward the end of grad school, but my program fell apart in the war, and Neuzo was the closest I could get to Dwarnian land.”

“Well, what’s stopping you now?”

He regards them, contemplative. “Huh,” he says eventually. “I’m not sure.”

“I’m working on getting passage out of Neuzo,” Krejjh points out, to illustrate their point. “You’re helping me, so clearly you know the people to contact. Why not try to book passage for yourself?”

He worries at his lip again. “I don’t know,” he says. “I know people here. I don’t…I haven’t thought about leaving in a long time.”

“It’s your life, of course,” Krejjh says. “But I’m sure plenty of petty criminals would happily take you to distant places. Hell, the war is ending, maybe you’ll even be free to legally travel to Federation planets soon.”

“I hadn’t gotten around to thinking about that yet,” he says, a bit distractedly, like he’s thinking about it now.

“Do you like bartending?”

He makes a face. “Bartending?”

“You insisted I call you Bartender Jeeter. I wondered, if you didn’t want to leave Neuzo, if that was because—”

“Oh,” he says, almost dismissively. “Bartending is just, like—yes, I like it, in general. It’s a good way to talk to people, hear different stories, you know. But I think I’d enjoy anything that put me in touch with people like this does. It’s a way to pay bills and speak Dwarnian. It’s not like it’s my calling. Linguistics is more to me what it sounds like flying is to you.”

“Linguist Jeeter?” Krejjh tries, with only a dim thought to the fact that it’s a human they’re affording this amount of naming courtesy.

“If you like,” he says with a shrug. “I’m not employed as a linguist right now.”

“Interpreter Jeeter,” Krejjh suggests. “I’m employing you.”

“Okay, Interpreter Jeeter,” Interpreter Jeeter agrees, then punches Krejjh lightly on the arm. “Get back to the textbook before I overthink my current career situation any more than I already have.”

Krejjh watches him walk away. A while later, they realize their face hurts from smiling helplessly after him.

* * *

Captain Suraj Huang of the starship Yosemite is hard for Krejjh to read. He’s got a stoic face and a deadpan sense of humor that Bartender Jeeter insists just doesn’t translate well. Krejjh suspects Captain Huang might not actually be that funny.

It’s the best offer Krejjh has had yet, though. Bartender Jeeter has trouble translating what kind of ship Captain Huang flies, but eventually, Krejjh realizes it’s an uncommon model, known for its flimsiness and extreme maneuverability. Krejjh has always wanted to fly one.

Moreover, he’s the only person so far who hasn’t outright objected to Krejjh’s past or posed an ongoing risk of turning them in to the Federation.

“If you come by the landing docks tomorrow morning, you could take a test flight in the Yosemite,” Captain Huang eventually says. “We’re scheduled to depart around afternoon tomorrow, if that suits your plans.”

“Sounds great to me,” Krejjh agrees, with no small measure of relief.

Captain Huang smiles, just slightly. “Then I look forward to it. Is your—”

Interpreter Jeeter breaks off translating and says a few words to Captain Huang in hurried Earth-English.

“He asked if I was coming too, I told him that wasn’t the plan,” Interpreter Jeeter explains, matter-of-fact.

“Why did he ask if you were coming?”

Interpreter Jeeter translates this, presumably, but when Captain Huang responds it’s directed to him, not Krejjh. He looks startled, and as they continue to exchange words in their language, his face morphs out of surprise into something more contemplative.

Krejjh taps Interpreter Jeeter’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”

He looks between Krejjh and Captain Huang, brow furrowed. “He’s trying to recruit me,” he says bemusedly.

“Is it working?” Krejjh asks.

“Um—” Captain Huang says something else, and Interpreter Jeeter’s attention breaks away from Krejjh to listen to him. Interpreter Jeeter nods and says something in response. “Honestly, I’m not sure,” he mutters to Krejjh after a moment. “He says some of his clients are asking him to deal with Dwarnian factions and he could use a linguist, that’s part of why he wanted to meet you.”

“You’re a linguist,” Krejjh says helpfully.

He breaks his gaze away from Captain Huang to shoot Krejjh a look they can’t quite decipher. “I know,” he says with a laugh, and turns away again.

They exchange more words, then suddenly Interpreter Jeeter’s expression changes, less tentative excitement, more hesitation.

“What happened?” Krejjh asks again, maybe a _little_ impatiently.

“He, um.” Interpreter Jeeter keeps speaking with Captain Huang, brow increasingly furrowed. Their words are getting a bit quicker.

“Hello?” Krejjh cuts in.

“Sorry, he, uh, he’s kind of insisting on recruiting me. It’s a little strange, I…don’t know what happened over the phone, but he’s saying like, he only has the budget to hire one person, and he doesn’t need a pilot that badly. I’m trying to tell him you’re the one who wants the job, but he’s not really listening.”

“Oh,” Krejjh says, not sure how to feel about that.

After a few more exchanges, they both nod politely, and Captain Huang stands and turns to Krejjh.

“It was nice to meet you,” Captain Huang says to Krejjh through Interpreter Jeeter. “I apologize for the misunderstanding.”

Then he leaves.

Krejjh is sort of at a loss.

“Not sure what to make of that,” Interpreter Jeeter says. “Ugh, that was awkward. I do have one more person coming.”

“You didn’t want the job?” Krejjh asks; by his face, he had seemed maybe interested for a minute there.

“Not gonna lie, I was sort of considering it,” he admits. “But communication like that, it left a bad taste in my mouth. I felt like he was trying to trap — well, one of us, at least. Not the best basis for a working relationship.”

“That sucks,” Krejjh proclaims. “That was so uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” he says. “It does make it a little easier when people are polite and clear-intentioned, doesn’t it?”

Krejjh nods. For whatever reason, Ashjre comes to mind.

Interpreter Jeeter blows out a breath and wordlessly places a bowl of cocktail peanuts in front of Krejjh before walking away to greet a customer. Krejjh munches mindlessly, turning the conversation over in their head. It occurs to them that they might be running out of options.

* * *

Before Krejjh knows, it’s almost closing.

It’s been a long night. It’s a low-traffic night for the bar — both IGR and Federation deployment schedules mean that the station tends to be less populated around mid-month — but Interpreter Jeeter has had plenty of work to do, and Krejjh has found ways to keep their mind off their increasingly concerning circumstances.

For one, Interpreter Jeeter was right about Neuzo — plenty of the people who come through the bar are Dwarnian, and Krejjh finds strangers to talk to when Interpreter Jeeter is busy. At one point, they spend most of an hour arm-wrestling a series of Dwarnians and humans, which is somehow not as fun when they’re stone cold sober.

For another…

Krejjh reads the textbook.

They really weren’t expecting to, especially after the pickup in evening traffic led to other ways for Krejjh to pass the time. But it turns out to be pretty satisfying, learning how to pronounce alien words and string them together. Krejjh tries to amuse Interpreter Jeeter by making ridiculous sentences with the textbook’s beginner-level vocabulary. _The duck has the house. My father is a television. The shoes are afraid._

Krejjh gets the sense Interpreter Jeeter laughs more to humor them than because he actually finds their attempts funny, but all the same, he seems to enjoy humoring them.

Half an Earth-hour before last call, a pair of humans come in and flag down Interpreter Jeeter, who finds Krejjh through the cacophony. The four of them slide into an unoccupied booth at the back of the room.

“This is Captain Sana Tripathi of the starship Rumor,” Interpreter Jeeter says, indicating the shorter of the two humans, a woman with long hair and sharp eyes. “With her is First Mate Arkady Patel.”

Krejjh takes in a breath. “So,” they say, directing their gaze to Captain Tripathi. “You need a pilot?”

“We do,” Captain Tripathi says through Interpreter Jeeter. “I have some flying ability, but to be frank, we’ve gotten into some close shaves lately and we could use someone with more expertise.”

“I’ve got expertise,” Krejjh says. “I’ve flown small ships up to Dwarnian military-grade, I have some experience with human-made vessels, and I’m a quick study to new ships.”

Captain Tripathi nods, satisfied. “The Rumor isn’t too big or too complicated. It shouldn’t be a leap for you.”

Krejjh doesn’t want to get too deep in this conversation if they’re going to hit a snag again. They take a deep breath; might as well get it over with.

“I fought in the war,” Krejjh says heavily. “Is that a problem for you?”

It’s First Mate Patel who starts speaking. “I did, too,” she says through Interpreter Jeeter. “Is that a problem for you?”

“No.”

“Then no,” she says. “You and I both know what the war was like. I wouldn’t hold that against you.”

“Neither of us support the IGR,” Captain Tripathi adds.

“I don’t support the Federation,” Krejjh replies.

Captain Tripathi nods, resolute. “Then we’re in business,” she says. “I think we could work well together.”

“I agree,” Krejjh says brightly.

Captain Tripathi extends her hand.

Krejjh hesitates for a minute, then remembers the hand-clasp thing humans do. They’ve seen this before. They hold out their hand to shake hers.

They’ve definitely, absolutely done this correctly.

“Welcome aboard, Krejjh,” Captain Tripathi says, and if there’s choked-back laughter in her voice when she says it or Interpreter Jeeter’s when he translates, Krejjh couldn’t possibly know anything about it.

“I look forward to flying together,” Krejjh agrees. “Do you have a scheduled departure?”

“We were wanting to fly out tonight. Is that too soon?”

“Sooner is better,” Krejjh admits. “That’s perfect for me.”

They exchange comms and rendezvous details. Captain Tripathi and First Mate Patel describe the Rumor just enough to get Krejjh excited to fly it. With promises to reconvene in a matter of Earth-hours, Captain Tripathi and First Mate Patel leave.

Krejjh and Interpreter Jeeter linger at the booth for a moment as Krejjh watches them go, letting out a relieved breath. “That…worked?” They say, a bit dumbfounded.

“They seemed like solid folks,” Interpreter Jeeter agrees. “I hope you like flying with them.”

“I hope so, too,” Krejjh says, optimistic.

They sit in silence for a moment, long enough for Krejjh to realize they’re still sitting in the same side of the booth, legs and sides pressed together, too close to really look at each other.

“I can help pack if you need,” he says.

Krejjh laughs. “Like you haven’t helped me enough.”

“Dude, I’m offering!”

“Honestly, everything I own is in a bag at my hostel already,” Krejjh says with a shrug. “How much longer are you here?”

He glances at his watch. “Forty-five minutes?”

“Well,” Krejjh says, standing from the booth. “I’m only on Neuzo a few more Earth-hours either way. I’d rather be here than at the hostel by myself. I mean, if I’m not intruding on your place of work.”

“Not at all,” he says as he stands. “I’ll kick everyone else out in fifteen minutes, and then I just have to clean up. You can choose the music.”

“You’ll regret that!” Krejjh calls cheerily after him.

“Try me,” comes his muffled reply, then he’s back behind the bar.

Krejjh sits back at their barstool and opens the textbook.

* * *

“Okay, okay, I’m definitely getting somewhere,” Krejjh claims, full of hubris, sitting on the bar with their feet propped up on one of the stools. “Say it again,” they demand of Interpreter Jeeter, who’s quickly and methodically wiping down tables in the otherwise empty room.

“ _Can,_ ” He says in quick, precise Earth-English.

“Okay. _Can. Can. Cannnn._ Okay. Say the other one.”

“ _Can’t_.”

Krejjh lets out a frustrated groan, at which Interpreter Jeeter looks up. He’s obviously close to laughter.

“Come on, you can do this,” he says earnestly.

“That’s the same word! Interpreter Jeeter, that is exactly the same word. Don’t mess with me.”

“ _Can. Cannnn._ And then _can’t. Can. Can’t._ Hear how the ‘nnnnn’ sound is sort of cut short on the last one? _Can’t. Can’t._ It’s glottalized, you have to—”

“ _You_ have to figure out a better way to make words sound different! You people really made your language like this?”

“Dude, do you know how long I’ve struggled with ‘north’ [wejh] and ‘oatmeal’ [wejjh]?”

Krejjh giggles at his accent. “You didn’t even say those differently. You just said ‘oatmeal’ twice.”

He huffs in exasperation and pauses in his cleaning to throw his arms wide. “I rest my case.”

“Okay, but that’s ‘north’ and ‘oatmeal,’ not ‘north’ and ‘south.’ These are opposite words and they sound exactly the same. _Can. Can’t. Can. Can’t._ ”

“You’re just saying _can_ over and over. _Can’t. Can’t. Can’t._ ”

“Showoff,” Krejjh grumbles. “Should I use it in a sentence? _I can’t speak English_.”

“Yeah, just like you said, _you can speak English_.”

Krejjh wads up a paper napkin and throws it at him. He yelps in surprise and grips the rag he’s using as if to throw it back at them.

The outside door swings open with a faint creak.

It’s Ashjre, entering the bar.

Krejjh hops to the ground, instantly on their guard.

“Hi Ashjre!” Interpreter Jeeter calls out, pleasant as ever. “We’re actually closing up right now, if you need something later you can—”

“How’s the job search going?” Ashjre asks Krejjh, voice coiled like razor wire.

“Fine,” Krejjh replies neutrally, gaze locked on Ashjre’s.

“Thought any more about my offer?” Ashjre asks. Interpreter Jeeter looks sharply at Krejjh.

“Not at all,” Krejjh says. “Are we done here?”

“Not at all.” Ashjre takes a few slinking steps forward, in which time Interpreter Jeeter steps sideways in front of Krejjh, just slightly coming between the two Dwarnians.

“I’m not going to work for Dwarnian supremacy, Ashjre,” Krejjh growls. “That’s final.”

“That’s a real shame,” Ashjre says, unworried. “Because we really need more firepower, and we _really_ need a pilot. So let’s think about this.”

“Let’s not,” Krejjh says.

“No, I think we will,” Ashjre continues. “I think we will, or the Dwarnian Federation will find out exactly where you are and what you’re doing, Krejjh.”

Interpreter Jeeter barks out a laugh. “No, they won’t,” he says with absolute confidence. “Half your people are on the run from the Federation, Ashjre. You wouldn’t put your entire operation in jeopardy just to lock down one pilot.”

Ashjre looks grim, just for a moment. “Let’s think about _this_ , then,” they growl, turning sharply to Interpreter Jeeter. “My team heard about some words that were exchanged between you and a few of the Delacroix crew last month. Now, I told the Delacroix people I didn’t know your daytime whereabouts, but I’d be happy to call them back, say I remembered you tend bar at Jamie Price’s. What do you think they’d do if they found you, human?”

Krejjh flinches. Interpreter Jeeter doesn’t.

“No,” He says, almost casually. “You don’t get to use my safety to hold other people hostage. If you’re so brave, why are you in a human bar threatening a human bartender just to get one pilot to fly for y—”

Ashjre’s hand clenches in the front of his shirt and they throw him bodily across the bar. He collides with the aluminum wall and tumbles in a heap on the floor.

Ashjre turns toward where he’s fallen, but they don’t have a chance to move toward him before Krejjh steps between them. It’s almost automatic how Krejjh’s arm flies. Their fist connects with Ashjre’s nose with a satisfying _crack_.

Ashjre stumbles back, clutching their face.

“I don’t know why you thought this would be convincing,” Krejjh hisses. “I’m more than happy to have trouble with you. Is that what you want?”

Part of Krejjh is absolutely itching for a fight, which has everything to do with the image in their head of Interpreter Jeeter crumpled on the floor, twitching in pain. They’re at least a little bit disappointed, then, when Ashjre looks from Interpreter Jeeter to Krejjh, scowls, and stalks out of the bar, hand still clasped over their nose.

As soon as the door has shut, Krejjh kneels on the ground next to Interpreter Jeeter and gingerly rolls him onto his back. He lets out a muffled groan as they do so, and Krejjh takes a moment to glance over his injuries. They can’t see any obvious problems, they don’t even know what to look for, but the _sound_ his collision with the wall had made…

Krejjh shudders.

“I thought you were done with violence,” Interpreter Jeeter says weakly, but it’s not an accusation.

“Well, ideally,” Krejjh acknowledges. “If violence finds my friends, though, I’m not going to stand by when I could instead very bravely and effectively punch someone.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” he says, wincing as he pushes himself to a seated position. “Seriously, Krejjh, thank you. That could have been a situation.”

“Thank _you_ for standing up to them! I’ve said you’re brave for a human, but seriously, man, you are frighteningly cool under pressure. I’m really lucky you’ve decided to help me out, for whatever reason. I’m not paying you that much.”

He shrugs, then immediately winces in pain again. “Dude, don’t even,” he manages. “You’re fun to help out.”

Krejjh watches him with concern as he gently rolls his shoulders, twists his torso, and swivels his neck, apparently to assess the damage. He doesn’t seem too bad off, but Krejjh doesn’t know much about human anatomy beyond how to make them die.

It’s an uncomfortable thing to realize at a moment like this.

“So,” Krejjh says quietly. “The Delacroix crew.”

Interpreter Jeeter grimaces. “Xia Delacroix heads the mafia on Ryedell Station. I interpreted for a negotiation with some of their people about a month back. Things went wrong, I was the messenger, they tried to shoot me. Literally. I hate to say it, but if Ashjre wasn’t bluffing, I could be in some real trouble.”

“Aw, jeez,” is Krejjh’s eloquent response.

“I don’t want to complain,” Interpreter Jeeter says with a heavy sigh.

“Don’t you? I would,” Krejjh says.

He nods reluctantly. “I do a lot of favors for people around here who aren’t my friends, or even good people,” he says solemnly. “I don’t mind, except it feels more and more like I end up getting paid in physical violence.”

“Not the payment I’d prefer,” Krejjh notes.

“No, me neither,” he agrees.

“I don’t want to tell you what to do,” Krejjh says, extending a hand. “But it might be time to think more carefully about who you do favors for.”

“No, that was the conclusion I was getting to as well,” he says, and takes Krejjh’s hand to stumble to his feet.

Once standing, he pauses, swaying a bit perilously.

“Krejjh,” he says weakly.

“Yes?”

“I should probably get home for, like, medical reasons, if not organized crime reasons. But I think I hit my head, so. Would you mind walking with me? Just, you know, in case?”

“Of course, Interpreter Jeeter,” Krejjh says, and automatically puts out a hand to steady him.

He cracks a smile. “There’s no way I can get you to call me Brian, is there?” He asks wryly as they make their way out of the bar.

“What’s a Brian?” Krejjh asks.

“I am,” Interpreter Jeeter says. “Brian Jeeter.”

“That’s not a word,” Krejjh points out.

“It’s my name, of course it’s a word!”

“You’re an Interpreter of the Jeeter clan. That’s who you are, that’s your name,” Krejjh explains. This is really very simple.

“Dude, I know Dwarnian naming conventions, but if you call me that, it feels _so_ formal,” he protests.

“If I call you Brian, it feels like I’m calling you something inanimate,” Krejjh protests in return. The thought of being so rude to someone they like and respect makes them feel a bit queasy.

“Okay, that’s what I expected,” he says in friendly resignation, shaking his head.

* * *

There’s an urgent message waiting for Interpreter Jeeter on the comms tab in his cubby. It’s a video of a human Krejjh vaguely recognizes, talking in hurried syllables.

As Interpreter Jeeter watches the video, he looks increasingly anxious. When the message ends, he mutters an emphatic word in Earth-English. “That’s my buddy, um. Alvy Connors, he tends bar with me,” He says, voice strained. “He said a bunch of people with guns just turned up at his place, asking where to find me.”

Krejjh’s stomach goes cold. “Oh, shit.”

Brian’s pacing around the room, which is not really big enough to pace around. It’s making Krejjh a bit dizzy. “No, it’s okay, it’s—Alvy’s all right under pressure, he told them he didn’t know where I lived, but that I’d be in to work tomorrow. He said it seemed like they believed him, which may have bought me some time. I can’t go in to work tomorrow, though, obviously.”

He says another sharp word in Earth-English and slams a frustrated fist against the desk.

“Okay,” Krejjh says, deliberately not panicking. “What do you need?”

“I think—” He sighs and runs a clawed hand through his hair. “I don’t know. It’s not my first time with mafia trouble, but this might be one time too many, they know too much about me now. I don’t know if I’ll get out of this one unless I run.”

“You need passage out of Neuzo,” Krejjh surmises.

He lets out a heavy breath. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Well, they wouldn’t have met each other if Krejjh didn’t relate.

“The crew of the Rumor’s flying out in less than two Earth-hours,” Krejjh says. It’s an offer.

“Captain Tripathi’s not the one who tried to recruit me,” he reminds them.

“You could call up Captain Huang, too,” Krejjh agrees. “Or, if you still don’t want to work with him, you could come with us.”

He looks at them, searching and conflicted. “Krejjh, you just joined that crew, and it’s a small crew,” He finally says. “I wouldn’t want to jeopardize your passage by asking them to take me on, too.”

“Well, don’t jeopardize my passage, then. Let me do it.”

He shakes his head, but slowly; he doesn’t look like he wants to refuse.

Krejjh steps in front of him and grabs his shoulders to stop his pacing. He looks frantic, dark eyes wild, face a bit pinker than normal. Krejjh still isn’t sure what that means, but at this point they’d guess it has something to do with agitation.

“If it was your choice, just your choice, would you come?” Krejjh asks him.

He sighs. “I’ve lived in Neuzo for years,” he says.

“And?”

“And…” he trails off, contemplative. “The mafia is after me again, and that’s not even close to the first time I’ve said those words in that order.”

“Interpreter Jeeter, don’t you think it’s time for a vacation? A nice, long starship cruise? Aboard a ship full of friendly and interesting smugglers whose business will most certainly put you in danger again in the future?”

Interpreter Jeeter laughs. “Sounds like a good time to me,” he says, some of the agitation dissolved.

Krejjh sighs and relaxes their hands on his shoulders — no longer a grip, but a grounding touch, firm and deliberate. “I could have taken the hit for you with Ashjre, but you called their bluff, and now you’re in danger for covering for me,” Krejjh says seriously. “Let me do this.”

He shuts his eyes and nods.

Krejjh steps back and takes out their comms. “Outgoing call, Krejjh to Captain Sana Tripathi.”

When the call connects, Krejjh holds the speaker between them.

“ _Krejjh, what’s up?_ ” Captain Tripathi says. Krejjh…doesn’t need to wait for a translation. How about that.

“Captain Tripathi, I have an urgent matter for you and First Mate Patel, if I could speak to the both of you,” Krejjh says.

Captain Tripathi’s voice comes through steady, businesslike. “Arkady’s here, what do you need?” Interpreter Jeeter translates.

Krejjh takes in a breath. “My passage on the Rumor is now conditional upon Interpreter Jeeter being allowed passage, as well,” Krejjh says. “Please be assured I still need this job very, very badly and am still eternally grateful for your offer in the first place. I wouldn’t be asking you this favor if it wasn’t important. As you can tell, he’s a highly skilled xenolinguist, and a very knowledgeable, capable, and pleasant person in general, and I can guarantee that you will be glad he’s on your crew.”

Krejjh feels extremely qualified to give this assessment. In one day, they’ve seen this human tactfully navigate tense conversations, translate Dwarnian technical jargon, tend bar during peak hours, stare down a mercenary’s blackmail attempts, and even succeed in helping Krejjh learn a language. Confident and brave and kind, every moment. More than that, he’s kept _Krejjh_ grounded. Made them feel at home at the loneliest, most alien point of their life.

Krejjh looks up at him, and he looks back, sky-dark eyes steady.

It hits Krejjh, sudden and warm and dizzying in its implications, that they might be falling for a human.

Interpreter Jeeter speaks in Earth-English, halting and hesitant, never quite looking away from Krejjh. When he’s done, Captain Tripathi lets out a bright, pleasant-sounding laugh, then her voice moves away from the receiver. She speaks with her First Mate, quick urgent tones interspersed with laughs and brighter words.

Interpreter Jeeter doesn’t say anything, either to them or to Krejjh, but the worry in his face has relaxed.

Krejjh nudges his shoulder. “Updates, please,” they demand.

“They’re discussing whether to let me in,” he says quietly. “They don’t have a lot of space or resources, but it would make communication with you easier if I was there, and it’s good to have a linguist around anyway. Also, they suspect, from what you said, that I might be in danger if I stay here.”

“Good guess,” Krejjh notes.

Interpreter Jeeter nods.

As Captain Tripathi and First Mate Patel continue their discussion, Interpreter Jeeter stares at the comms, and Krejjh stares at Interpreter Jeeter. They tell themself it’s because his reactions are the only way they’ll know what’s going on, but hey, they like staring at him too much not to enjoy it.

Finally, Captain Tripathi returns to the receiver and speaks. Interpreter Jeeter perks up and speaks back. He looks relieved. He’s smiling.

“Are you coming?” Krejjh stage-whispers.

He looks up from the comms. “Yeah,” he says, with a smile like he’s almost surprised himself. He speaks into the receiver in quick Earth-English; Captain Tripathi says something in response, friendly and businesslike.

“I’m asking if I can postpone departure, she said yes,” Interpreter Jeeter relays. “I can’t really go anywhere without my data drive, it’s got all my reference books—”

“Okay, nerd, start packing. I’ll help.”

“I can help you learn English,” He says with a broad smile.

“I sure hope so,” Krejjh says, still _not_ thinking about Vree Chel Nokean.

“Krejjh, thank you,” he says, startlingly genuine.

“Completely selfish on my part,” Krejjh admits. “I like you too much to be okay with you getting hurt by the mafia instead of taking off across the stars with me.”

He lets out a soft laugh. His dark eyes never leave Krejjh’s. “Well, then,” he says, low and quiet. “I’m looking forward to it.”

* * *

When they arrive at the Rumor, Captain Tripathi welcomes them with an urgent look. As soon as they’re on board, she’s speaking, clipped and efficient.

Interpreter Jeeter looks between Krejjh and Captain Tripathi. “Uh—sorry, wait, she’s saying—”

Captain Tripathi waves her hand ambiguously, and Interpreter Jeeter sets his bags down in the middle of the room, which looks like a mess hall. Once Krejjh does the same, Captain Tripathi leads them through the ship, moving as efficiently as she’s speaking.

“She’s saying she and Arkady have noticed some activity along the landing docks here, apparently one of their contacts radioed to say there’s armed people in uniforms requesting to board docked ships and asking after a translator. We’ll have to make a quick departure, and we might be pursued. Okay, yeah, she wants me to ask you if you can do that, the departure. Says it might be a tricky one.”

“Interpreter Jeeter, please tell her it would be my absolute honor to perform evasive maneuvers with this ship,” Krejjh says, gleeful.

He relays the message and Captain Tripathi flashes them a smile. She opens a door and then they’re all in the cockpit.

Krejjh is sliding into the pilot’s seat and glancing over the indicators before anyone can say anything.

“I’m translating from Captain Tripathi. Power to full, engines ready, we’re all-clear for takeoff at your earliest convenience,” Interpreter Jeeter says.

Krejjh runs their hands over the controls. It’s like coming home.

“Beautiful humans, this is your brand-new pilot speaking,” they say over the internal comms. They’re slipping into the rhythm of flight, finding familiar steady excitement in the face of danger, and it doesn’t occur to them that there’s only one other person on the ship who can understand them. “We are hereby beginning our daring high-speed departure from Ryedell Station! Remember that the fear of what follows us only drives us wide-eyed and courageous into what lies ahead, and this is the beginning of a long and exciting journey! Everyone hold tight and enjoy the dazzling aeronautics!”

* * *

One near-catastrophe later, the new crew of the Rumor settle down in the mess hall for fresh-brewed moonshine and a moment of peace.

“Krejjh, that was truly inspired,” Captain Tripathi acknowledges once they’ve finished. “If I had attempted that escape, I would have wrecked this ship.”

Krejjh grins, still buzzing with the thrill of it. “I know, I’m amazing.”

“That you are. I’ll take a shift at the cockpit, you all rest. Sounds like you two have had an eventful day.”

Interpreter Jeeter pauses at the end of his translation and frowns. “Has it just been one day?”

Krejjh chuckles and taps his foot with theirs under the table. “I’m expecting to feel tired any minute now. I’m sure it’ll happen.”

He looks tired, but not unhappily so. His gaze is aimed vaguely at the tabletop, and Krejjh takes the opportunity to run their eyes over him, the smiling curve of his cheekbones, the strong line of his nose, the curved shapes of his downturned eyes. He’s incurred a handful of nicks and scrapes from his fall, and the skin is starting to bruise deep pink and purple around some of them.

First Mate Patel is around the corner at the sink, washing dishes. As she works, she’s singing, loose and slow. Not a rallying cry, not a lamentation, not a celebration, but something calm and intimately human. It’s that distracted kind of singing that Krejjh first heard the first time they met Interpreter Jeeter at his cubby; singing in a form that forces Krejjh to rethink what they know about what singing is for.

“Interpreter Jeeter,” Krejjh says.

“I’m not really your interpreter anymore,” he says, thoughtful. “I mean, I’ll still interpret for you, obviously, but. I’m not sure what my occupation is, now.”

Krejjh pauses to reflect on the change in state and what it means for what comes next. Their transition from a Lieutenant in the Dwarnian Space Fleet to a desperate defector in the Neutral Zone to the pilot of a tiny smuggling ship has been rapid and disorienting. This is their life now, and they’ve just stumbled into it, punching and running.

“Crewman Jeeter,” Krejjh says, by way of correction.

He nods. “Yeah?”

“What’s that song First Mate Patel is singing?”

“It’s an old-Earth folk song. Loosely translates to ‘Distilled Grain Alcohol in the Jar.’”

“I’m guessing ‘distilled grain alcohol’ is one word in Earth-English?”

He cracks a smile. “You’ve got a sharp linguistic instinct, Krejjh, and I only partly mean that as a joke.”

“How would that be a joke? It’s a compliment!” Krejjk protests. 

He shakes his head. “Sorry, we’ll work on the sarcasm. It’s a hard concept to grasp. Hard for me to get out of the habit, too, even in Dwarnian.”

“Crewman Jeeter,” Krejjh says again.

“Krejjh?”

“Do you know this song?”

“Mm, some of it,” he says.

“Do you…” Krejjh hesitates on the realization that this is probably a remarkably strange thing to ask.

“Do I?” Crewman Jeeter probes. Krejjh looks up to see him focused on them, posture loose, gaze intent. There’s a familiarity between them that belies the scant thirty-some hours they’ve known each other, and now that their acquaintanceship doesn’t come with the threat of imminent separation, that familiarity feels viable. Not a spark on the wind, but a fueled flame, low and new and promising to consume everything in reach.

Krejjh takes a breath to rephrase. “I would like to know how to sing,” they say in a small voice.

His head tilts to the side. “I’m not really a singer—you mean, in general? You don’t know how?”

“We don’t do that,” Krejjh explains. “Music with the voice. I think it’s amazing. Maybe the best thing humans do.”

He chuckles. “I can’t argue with that,” he muses. “Yeah, of course we can sing. We’re a ship’s crew now, right? Maybe we can make our own shanties.”

Krejjh basks in the idea, the four of them in this metal boat among the inky vacuum of space, singing together to stoke whatever fundamental spark of life leads to singing in the first place. Krejjh hasn’t figured it out yet. It doesn’t matter whether they ever will. They think they’d like to keep listening, and join in when they can.

“Brian,” they try.

His face lights up. “Yeah?”

“No, I don’t like it,” they decide.

He throws his head back and laughs, which is music in its own right.

“I mean, it’s nice, it’s a good name, or whatever,” Krejjh rushes to explain. “But I don’t like feeling like I’m looking down on you.”

“Okay,” he says softly. “Then call me what you want. Jeeter’s my name, too.”

Their eyes meet his, and the eye contact lingers. It could be due to human social customs, or their combined tiredness, or just the promise of everything they don’t yet know about each other. Continuing to look at him feels as natural as flying, so Krejjh looks at him.

Crewman Jeeter looks back.

Krejjh really, really wants to kiss him. Idly, they wonder if humans kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> When Krejjh is pronouncing words from the textbook, they’re pronouncing “people” like /pɪɔːplə/. Pronouncing every vowel. Dwarnian is super phonetic and they are not paying enough attention to the textbook to have noticed the phonetic transcriptions of the vocab terms. Brian thinks it’s funny but he’ll correct them on it eventually.
> 
> I’m on tumblr @alex-guarnaschelli please come yell at me about this show and/or the magic human practice known as singing


End file.
